


A Scrap, a Flicker

by downdeepinside



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dating, First Dates, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-03-25 03:55:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3795772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downdeepinside/pseuds/downdeepinside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John recognises he needs to work to win Sherlock's heart. He also recognises that sometimes things can get a little too serious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I've been reading A LOT of romantic Johnlock fics lately, but what I'm really hankering for is a slow burner where the boys date like normal people, where John woos Sherlock (because after the mess that is S3 he bloody needs to) and Sherlock lets him (because a self-proclaimed sociopath consenting to candles and kisses is a big thing). So - here it is. Poorly written and poorly planned, I admit, but I need a break from maths revision sometime. Also, this is 100% lighthearted, romantic, silly, fluffy etc. No one dies, considers dying, flirts with God, or cries dramatically. This is a first for me so, personal growth, I suppose. If you have any suggestions for how to write something that is well written rather than my usual inexplicable angsty drivel, that would be amazing.
> 
> Updates will be slow, although I'm dreaming of one update a week, chapters a little longer after C1 (The Prologue), and this thing should be wrapped up in about 4 chapters in total. Comments tend to motivate me, haha, if you are so inclined. 
> 
> Thank you. The title is taken from a Lauren Oliver quote: "You can build a future out of anything. A scrap, a flicker. The desire to go forward, slowly, one foot at a time. You can build an airy city out of ruins."

“There is always something left to love.” – Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

***

After assassination attempts, consulting criminals and devastatingly false foetuses, the Morstan-Watson marriage ends most anti-climactically. An affair, an argument, a divorce. Just six months after Sherlock Holmes was once again saved by Big Brother, this time from death at the hands of a not-so-small Middle Eastern crime syndicate, he finds himself with a not-so-new flatmate. Things are messy at first, as one might expect. Words exchanged are forced and, like dust, hang stagnant in the air between the two former friends. Smiles are rare, laughter more so.

John snaps at Sherlock often in the early days, much like before, yet unlike before the detective simply takes it with a quirk of the eyebrows, or a barely perceptible twitch of the lips. It isn’t until a month or so into this new, somewhat uncomfortable, arrangement that the army doctor starts to notice Sherlock’s silence for what it is. Hurt.

John is sat in his once-again home when the pieces fall together. The sun is blinding outside but, other than the unexpected heat for mid-April, nothing is out of the ordinary. It is strange, a law of the universe, that the most life changing moments are the ones where everything seems normal. Where nobody would think to look beneath the surface. His fingers are tracing the seam of his favourite chair, re-instated within the living room, when he allows his mind to wander back through the memories of his time with the great Sherlock Holmes. He leisurely strolls through their early days, through exciting chases and unexpected cases, and his heart skips slightly at the memory of quiet moments in Baker Street’s kitchen or St Bart’s lab. The days after Moriarty appeared are harder to revisit, foreboding tickling John’s spine as every memory of the spider leads to That Day. That Day, where Sherlock fell, is fierce burning napalm, no elegance, no grace, just black sticky agony. The days following are grey, the blue light Mary had once brought now dim.

It isn’t until an idiot wearing a fake moustache appears with a foolish grin the picture turns a soft yellow, and even then it isn’t full technicolour again until that bloody horrible moment in the Underground.

Maybe not love, John thinks, but it’s more than like. He sees, when looking back, an idiot’s smile, a madman’s eyes, and an almost fluorescent glow. He sees – something. And maybe, in the end, that’s enough.

***

The Bunsen burners, John thinks, are a little over the top, definitely very silly, but he supposes that’s the point. Silly, extravagant, fun. That’s the point of all of this. Something nice, no need to get serious too soon, it’s not what he wants and it’s not what Sherlock deserves.

So, Bunsen burners, lemon and pistachio cake, white wine. The kitchen lights are turned off, which isn’t ideal but they don’t dim and Bunsen burners don’t work as scenic lighting if you’re going to keep on flickering energy efficient bulbs that occasionally (constantly) hum obtrusively.

Sherlock bursts into the flat with a clang and a clatter, followed by rustling as he carefully pulls his jacket off to hang on John’s newly-installed hooks. The doctor counts to ten under his breath before silence falls and he can almost hear the cogs in the brilliant man’s brain turn.

“John?” The detective’s frown is almost audible, he takes a few steps towards the stairs, then pauses turning around in the lounge. “Are you in?” a redundant question, John guesses; the dust particles probably already answered for him. Still, he remains silent.

“John?” Sherlock calls again, making his way to the kitchen. He glances around before a flame catches in his colour-changing eyes and he looks up sharply to meet John’s placid gaze. “Bunsen burners?” he asks, with a slight twitch.

“We’re working our way up to candles,” John replies calmly, enjoying being the one in the know for once. “Sit down.”

Sherlock seems to fall down as if on instinct, a soft hush of fabric following as he sits on the kitchen chair. Slowly, John slices a generous piece of cake and balances it with a fork on a plate. He hands it to Sherlock before serving himself.

“Eat.”

A mouthful of cake makes its way into Sherlock’s mouth before he fully registers the command. He frowns, a serious crinkle making itself known on his forehead, and in response to a quizzical stare John simply lifts his eyebrows and takes a hideously large bite of cake. As Sherlock contemplates words he chews, obnoxiously, and eventually the detective surrenders and eats almost half of his slice. With his next forkful suspended in mid-air Sherlock seems to break out of his trance and freeze. “Do we need to talk about something?” he asks, and John smiles.

“Yes. Well, maybe. We’ll do that later.”

“Okay,” Sherlock says, sounding very much like someone who is not okay. John sighs and pours two glasses of wine, offering one to the detective before taking a large gulp of his own.

“If you want to,” John frowns, “If you’d – _like_ to,” he groans, “Look, I was thinking,”

“John?” Sherlock says for the third time, his voice soft and his eyes concerned. He scans the doctor quickly and John finds that, yes, he’s being ridiculous. He smiles and looks into soft, crazy, beautiful eyes.

“I’m trying to, well, I’d like to ask you on a date.”

“You’d – like to?”

“No. No, okay. I _am_ asking you on a date. I’m – Sherlock Holmes, would you like to go out with me?”

The man in questions blinks, slowly, then twice very quickly. He opens his mouth, before changing his mind and pouring wine into it instead. The clock in the living rooms ticks rudely and he shakes his head viscously as if to clear it, dropping his glass onto the table and straightening up.

“I – yes. Okay.”

“Okay?” John echoes a ghost of a smile on his lips. Sherlock nods.

“Okay.”

***


	2. Date One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the insanely lovely response to the last chapter! I'm sorry this took so long to get up, and I haven't even had the chance to reply to the fantastic comments, but revision is slowly killing me.

“To plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow.” – Audrey Hepburn.

***

John’s been on a lot of first dates, _a lot_. He has never, however, been on a first date this important. Normally a couple meet, date, maybe fall in love, maybe move in together, and then proceed from there. So far John Watson has met the great Sherlock Holmes, moved in with him, and fallen in love. Dating, for them, seems to be step four.

The point is, he wants it to be special. There’s a fine line, John had discovered, between special and suffocating.

A younger John would have booked a table at Angelo’s, perhaps where they sat on that first day, and filled the place with candles in the form of apologies. He’d have ordered the most expensive wine on the menu and let his feelings pour off of his tongue as he looked into Sherlock’s eyes adoringly. He’d have flung his cards on the table in a way he’d have believed to be romantic and at the end of the evening he’s have pressed the detective up against the wall outside Baker Street, where anyone could see, to whisper silly things into his ear and press his lips none too softly to Sherlock’s.

If there’s anything life with Sherlock has taught John, it’s that time is precious – but not finite. Life is the longest thing we will ever know. Some things aren’t worth the time of day, they can be dealt with quickly or ignored all together and it’s all the same. Other things, important things, deserve patience. Words left unsaid are just as wasted as words spoken too soon. Trying is not the same thing as talking.

Sherlock deserves time, and that is what he will get.

***

The table is a little too near to the toilets for John’s liking, but the staff are smiley and he’s fairly confident in his assumption Sherlock has never been to this restaurant before. When he sat down a small tea light had been struggling to stay alight in the middle of the table, so he’d put the fragile flame out of its misery with a quick breath. He resists the urge to check his watch again and instead straightens the cuffs of his blue shirt for the tenth time since he sat down. He tugs on the bottom of his shirt as a ridiculous thought pops into his head.

_What if he doesn’t come?_

Because, of course, that’s ridiculous, isn’t it? Almost seven years John and Sherlock have been going to restaurants, chasing criminals, existing together. Seven years, Sherlock won’t let John down now.

_Unless he doesn’t want this._

It has crossed the doctor’s mind that Sherlock, virgin or not, is fairly new to the whole idea of relationships and dates. It is a possibility, a possibility John has to face, that the poor man – unsure of what he wants and afraid of losing his only friend – is simply too afraid to turn up. A whole week’s passed since the lemon cake and, while the two have spoken every single day, it can’t exactly be easy to turn around and change your mind about – well, this.

_Stop it._

John promised himself he wasn’t going to get stupid about this. Three dates, he’d decided Three dates of fun, no strings attached (as if that’s really possible with Sherlock). If it works, great. Fantastic, bloody marvellous. If it doesn’t, three dates isn’t too many. Three dates isn’t too serious.

Three dates, and if – well. If the shit hits the fan John still has a friend, and he’ll at least know he did things properly. Because, yes, that’s what Sherlock deserves.

Hell, it’s what _they_ deserve.

“Um,” the exclamation makes John flinch and he looks up sharply, half expecting it to be the overly smiley waitress asking that he either order or leave. Instead, surprisingly, he locks eyes with one very flushed detective.

“I – uh.” Sherlock frowns and runs a hand through his (combed) hair, looking even more embarrassed. “You’re – dressed up?”

John’s wearing dark jeans and a pretty damn boring shirt, but compared to his usual jumper and chino ensemble he can see why Sherlock might assume he’s dressed up. The reality was he’d wanted to look nice, like he was putting in an effort. His brain swings through potential answers for moment before he offers a lopsided grin and gestures to the chair opposite him.

“Well, I left the Big Bird costume at home, but I guess I had to wear something other than a jumper, didn’t I?”

Sherlock blinks, then smiles. “The jumpers are good,” he says almost shyly, “Although the move away from oatmeal is most welcome.”

***

Two slightly dubious pizzas arrive just as silence falls between the two friends. John’s chews and Sherlock contemplates the mysterious hole cut out of the middle of his dinner. Salad scatters the plate sparsely, while the chef has apparently been more generous with the dressing which is almost flooding the bread. He takes a small bite of the pizza and tries to keep his face neutral as sharp vinegar hits the back of his throat. He swallows and closes his eyes, completely missing John’s expression as he watches the whole thing with a small smile on his face.

“Good pizza?” John asks, smiling innocently.

What Sherlock clearly believes are words fall from his lips, but they sound more like pained gags. John grins and drops his fork on the plate for a moment, leaning back to pull seventeen small cards from his pocket.

“Brilliant, so according to the internet the two top requirements for any first date is apparently terrible food, followed swiftly by awkward questions.”

“Awkward questions?”

“Yeah, okay, so questions that you’d only ever ask a stranger if you really had to. Say, what’s your job? What are you ambitions? Where did you grow up? Things like that.”

Sherlock takes a small bite of his salad/pizza/disaster and crosses his legs. He nods jerkily.”

“I figured we aren’t strangers, but if we really want to do this properly we should still have some questions so,” John gestures towards the cards, now placed faced down in the middle of the table, “Do you want to go first, or shall I?”

Sherlock takes a sip of his water before straightening up and taking the top card, snorting as he scans it. “Alright,” he flexes his arms and then folds his hands on the table, “John Watson, who has had the biggest influence on your life? I realise I’m new to this dating, but I do believe it’s ill-advised to name anyone present.”

***

The questions were, quite frankly, ridiculous. As Sherlock got steadily drunker and John consistently cockier the conversation flowed and skipped in that artificial, amazing, way it does when neither party really knows what they’re saying and neither party really cares. It was natural, easy, and John knew he’d been successful when Sherlock conceded to share a desert – which he promptly demolished with very little help. It was a nice night, the kind that smells a little like rain and glitters poetically in the moonlight.

The decided to walk home.

If the date were a movie, then a small band would have serenaded them something terrible – probably _Bella Note_ – as they walked shoulder to shoulder through Regents Park, of if the date were one of younger John’s the army doctor would have worked his hand into Sherlock’s, caressing the detectives palm needlessly.

It was none of these things, it was simply two friends – teetering on the edge of something more – walking side by side like they always had, like they always would.

***

The door to Baker Street is a welcome sight as the breeze starts to bite at John’s neck. He lets Sherlock in, being sure to flick the latch closed as he pulls the door shut. As he follows the detective up to 221B he notices a slight hesitancy in the other man’s pace, something he wouldn’t have noticed years ago. He allows himself a private smile as his flatmate steps into the living room.

Sherlock swings round to face John in that way of his, looking almost ready to pitch into the ground. There’s a blush of colour high in his cheeks as he glances at the ex-soldier and then promptly flicks his gaze to a spot on the wall. The nervousness that had slowly seeped away throughout the date is back, apparently, and John absently wonders if it’s wrong just how much he loves this bashful side of the man.

“Um,” Sherlock starts, and yes, he actually says _um_ for a second time. He screws his face up as if in thought before folding his arms quickly and shrugging tightly, “That was, not, that wasn’t, uh, unpleasant. That was not unpleasant.”

John grins. “I’m glad,”

“I don’t,” Sherlock seems to decide to fix his eyes on John, and the fierce blue gaze is as astonishing as it is terrifying. “Exactly know what we’re supposed to do now.”

“Now, we go to bed. I don’t know about you, but I’m knackered.” John tries to meet Sherlock’s gaze just as determinedly, although he suspects he falls flat. “First dates really take it out of me.”

“Right,”

Tea, John decides, will be needed by at least one of them before bedtime. He heads to the kitchen and as he fills the kettle hears the sounds of awkward footsteps following him. As the kettle starts to bubble Sherlock clears his throat and John smiles forgivingly at him.

“If that was the first date,” Sherlock’s pink cheeks go a comic shade of red, “Might there be others?”

John makes a show of thinking seriously. As the kettle reaches boiling point he switches it off and places his hands on the kitchen counter calmly.

“I’ll call you.”

***


	3. Date Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience and comments! I am posting this quickly now, because otherwise I will find a reason to delay. The next chapter is written and will be posted within the week.
> 
> Your comments are incredible and appreciated more than you could ever know, I have these fantastic strangers wishing me well and reading my words which is honestly an incredible thing to comprehend.

“I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.” – Galileo Galilei.

***

Date Number One was exactly a week ago, and while for a few days the equilibrium in Baker Street has certainly been upset by the new spark now nurtured between the two men a text from Lestrade and a subsequent case had worked wonders on restoring normality. The weather was quite honestly sublime, not that John had got to enjoy much of it as he stayed inside all day reading through old newspaper cuttings and internet articles. Only at night did the two men emerge from their flat to carefully plot the movements of their suspect, who by Wednesday proved themselves innocent by drowning in a pool of their own blood. The case was everything the old Sherlock would have loved, but the new, kinder man, clearly found the effort exhausting and the themes reminded him of ghosts John was not yet allowed to know. Four days into the case he looked ready to drop, dark circles under his eyes and a steady tremor in his limbs. As he answered his phone wearily to Lestrade (another scene, another death) John decided it was time.

Date Number Two was well overdue.

***

Speed dial one, three rings, the click of a connection.

“John?”

Sherlock sounds predictably exhausted, but also a smidge concerned. John rarely calls, he knows, and the nature of the case already has him severely on edge. The retired soldier decides to get straight to the point.

“Is there any news?”

“Not at this end, just three bodies. All completely unrelated bar the original victim, who’s still unconscious and until they wake up or the culprit makes a mistake we’re just wasting time. It’s a waiting game, John, and I’m sure you know how I loathe to wait.”

John’s sure Sherlock would have had more to say had his blood sugar levels not been plummeting since his last real meal four days ago, but felt the small rant for now was proof enough his plan was going to work. Sherlock needed time off, and John needed Sherlock.

“So you haven’t got anything on? Right now.”

“No,”

“I thought we could go for lunch, then.”

John’s tone leaves no room for argument, and he can almost certainly hear Sherlock tense with confusion over the line. There’s a long pause and then, quietly, “Is this you calling me, then?”

John smiles, surprised and pleased Sherlock remembered, before mentally steeling himself, “One o’clock, Baker Street.”

***

Since the case began the sun had been shining, blindingly bright and astonishingly hot. So, it is of course the law of the universe that as John Watson packs himself a picnic, in a fine straw hamper borrowed from Mrs Hudson filled with strawberries, chocolates and sandwiches bought from Tesco, storm clouds start to gather. As the clock strikes one he glances around the flat frantically, considering a last ditch change of plans, but as Sherlock climbs wearily out of a cab and smiles fantastically up at John he decides it’s worth it, grabbing a throw from the back of the sofa before quickly running downstairs.

Sherlock seems faintly bemused, either by John or his load, but stays quiet as they head down the road to Regents Park. Most sensible people are either heading inside or hiding under trees, so John spreads his make-shift rug on the grass by the lake, gesturing for Sherlock to sit. He does, looking incredibly uncomfortable with his overly-long limbs preventing almost every attempt to sit normally. Eventually he settles with his knees pulled to his chest, pensively watching the basket as if a snake might climb out of it.

“Cheese sandwich?” John offers as he passes the packet to an unenthused Sherlock. The man frowns at the food and, after a moment, places the box down on the rug. He looks equally put-out by the orange juice John hands him but instead takes a small sip as his gaze switches from the basket to John himself.

“Are we,” Sherlock looks uncomfortable and tries to change positon again, his legs getting caught up in his ridiculous coat as he does so, “Is this a picnic?”

John grins, “Blimey, you really are a detective,” he teases, tearing into a sandwich and pausing slightly as Sherlock merely tilts his head at the joke. “Er, yeah. I thought it might be nice – take your mind off the case and all.”

“I don’t eat when I’m on a case.”

There’s no real answer to that, and Sherlock doesn’t seem to expect one. Instead John focuses intensely on his food and, when that’s finished, he stares out at the water in front of them. It’s been almost ten minutes before the detective shifts again, taking a larger gulp of his drink and then pushing his legs out straight. He closes his eyes and sighs heavily.

“I’m tired, John.”

Strawberries are pulled from the hamper and John’s heart steadily drums in his ears. “Why don’t you sleep, then?”

“The case,”

“Can wait.”

“It’s the _work_ ,”

“Don’t tell me that comes first, Sherlock. Not anymore. Don’t sit there and tell me the work comes first.”

The detective looks truly miserable, turning the sandwich over in the hands before slowly picking at the opening tab. He shakes his head and tears away some of the seal. “There’s a reason people don’t date me, as I’m sure you are well aware. This exercise will end, I can promise you that. When you lose interest, and when you move on, there will still be murderers and mysteries. When you leave, John, which you will, I will still have the work.”

“But what if I said I’m not leaving?”

Sherlock chews on a miniscule bite of cheese and pickle, staring daggers and the ducks in the water. He shrugs rigidly and swallows, John decides to drop the issue, for now.

“There are strawberries, for after,” he says, false cheer injected into his tone, “A fairly essential picnic-date food. A chocolate, which I’m told is supposed to be on the strawberries but to be honest I think that’s for people with more time than us.”

The sandwich is forgotten as Sherlock leans forward to find a bar of Cadburys in the hamper, as well as some crisps and flapjacks bought as a last minute addition. He crack a half-smile and breaks off some chocolate for himself, “Next time, I pack the food.”

***

The awkwardness recedes, gradually, and Sherlock even manages to eat half of his sandwich along with a packet of crisps, the entire chocolate bar, and more than his fair share of strawberries. The two men have gradually moved closer to each other throughout their alfresco lunch until, by the end, they are practically leaning on each other. John drinks some juice and is just starting to ready himself for another conversation about the case when the first fat drop of rain falls directly on the nose. He blinks, mildly irritated, and when his eyes open again Sherlock is staring at him, closer than before. He seems to bat his eyelids and certainly licks his lips, smiling absently as more rain falls, rolling off his shoulders and soaking his hair.

The air between the two seems to crackle as John allows himself to move in a little closer, close enough that they are sharing air. He thinks, idly, that if the two stayed there forever, frozen in their own moment in the park, the air in Sherlock’s lungs would eventually be the air from his lungs and, although it seems rather odd, that would also be fairly spectacular. It’s been true for years now that John is Sherlock and Sherlock is John, but to share air, to be one separate entity (them, against the world) would really be something else.

A crackle of thunder pulls him back, both mentally and literally.

“We should get inside,” he says as he throws everything back into the basket, “Get back to the case.”

“No,”

“You’re no good to me if you’re ill,”

“John,”

“Sherlock.” The detective is right in John’s face when he glances up from his task and the sudden closeness makes him gasp. Sherlock’s eyes are wide and dangerous, John’s sure his are tight and tired. “We really should head back, Sherlock. It’s fine. This was a lovely date.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to argue, but is cut off by the buzz of his phone. He frowns and pulls it out of his pocket, sparing it only a quick glance before visibly deflating. “It’s,”

“The work, I know.”

“John,”

He shakes his head and closes the picnic hamper with a final _clunk_. Finally, he meets Sherlock’s frightened gaze and pulls on a smile, “I will see you back at the flat later, okay? Your working doesn’t change any of this.”

Sherlock chews his lip before standing up quickly and turning away.

John doesn’t watch him go.

***

John returns Mrs Hudson’s hamper before heading upstairs to a dark and quiet flat. The rain outside clears the streets and rattles the windows, and soon enough to kettle boils. He throws the rug in the washing machine and drops a tea bag into a mug before changing his mind and switching to coffee; Sherlock might need him at any moment.

He settles into his chair, book and mug in hand, ignoring the short buzz of his phone for only a moment. As he sighs and stands up to answer the text the phone starts ringing, and in his haste to answer the call the mug spills on a pile of papers.

“Lestrade?”

There are sirens, but the additional sound of papers shuffling and colleagues chattering puts John’s mind somewhat at ease. The DI is finishing a conversation with someone else, but after a moment talks too loudly down the phone to John.

“Are you with Sherlock? I texted him, ah, about twenty minutes ago, haven’t seen or heard from him since.”

John replies that, no, he isn’t with Sherlock. Which means the man has not only left John, but the work, too.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Sorry I know I promised no angst.... but it's only very brief and will be resolved!)


	4. Interim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments would really be appreciated as I head into the last chapter! I was considering making this into a series but the wall of silence puts me off somewhat.
> 
> If there's anything specific you'd like to see in Date Three, let me know.

“Fear cannot take what you do not give it.” – Christopher Coan.

***

John is certain of one thing: he pushed for too much, too soon. He promised himself he would give Sherlock time, and he promised himself he would be patient. Then he pulled the man out of a case for a _date_ and now he was God-knows-where.

Yet again, John finds himself owing Sherlock a thousand apologies he’d never consider accepting.

It’s been two days since Sherlock didn’t turn up at Lestrade’s office as expected, and while John had received a perfunctory text from Sherlock (FINE. – SH) there still hadn’t been neither hide nor hair of him since. The case seemed thankfully dormant, the murderer either dead themselves or now content all of their enemies had been taken care of. Sherlock being gone wasn’t really hurting anyone – save himself.

When he eventually did return, John was prepared. That is to say, John was prepared for anything.

***

My brother has been located. I suspect he will be with you within the hour. – MH.

***

Sherlock burst into the flat, dripping water onto the mat. He pulled off his coat and threw it at the sofa, pacing the living room for several moments. John watched all of this calmly, only pausing momentarily to glance at the plastic carrier bag clutched in Sherlock’s trembling fist. He stood up, and rolled back his shoulders.

“What’s in the bag, then?”

Sherlock missed a step and nearly stumbled, before regaining his composure and pulling the bag closer to his chest. He pulled on his lower lip with his teeth and the colour seemed to drain from his face. John calmly crossed his arms, waiting.

A beat.

“I do not believe, truly, that you will stay.”

He watched the detective stumble again before freezing, “Sherlock,”

The man held up a hand, and John fell reluctantly silent. “You have every right to leave this relationship, as do I. You have every right to grow tired of me, John, for I am a ridiculous man. You have every right to grow bored of me, for I do not intend to change. You have every right to leave me, John, although I do not intend to leave you.

“That said, however, for the sake of, this,” Here he gestured between the two of them, “I would like to believe you will stay. I would like to believe in the future and permanence of us as much as a wounded John Watson lying in the desert would like to believe in God. And so, I will. I will try my best to believe in you, as surely as I believe in us.”

John wished he could do more than breathe, or pant, but the intensity of Sherlock’s gaze and the uncertain tone of his voice was enough to leave him silent, scared. Sherlock put the plastic carrier bag down on the table and pulled two slim white candles out of it. He held them flat in his palms and let his gaze fall.

“Please know, John, that while I will from now on believe you are staying with all of the heart you allow me to have, I will still forgive you if you choose to leave. If you were to only stay until these candles burnt out, I would forgive you. For as much as I do not intend to change, and as much as I am ridiculous, I have changed with you and you have been truly insane with me. As much as I want you to stay, I am grateful enough that you were ever here.”

***

Later, there is tea. Sherlock looks like a man who hasn’t slept in almost seven days (which is exactly what he is) and curls up on the sofa in a ball, looking soft and sad to a John who is more used to hunched-up, angry balls on the sofa. He flicks through several channels on TV before settling for the news, which he eventually mutes. Sherlock sighs, loudly, and John tries not to wince when he sips his too-cold tea.

“I’d like to say I’m sorry.”

The ball of man twitches slightly, but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge the words.

“I knew you were on a case, and I knew you needed some time off, but that didn’t mean I needed to completely pull you away. The work does come first, sometimes, and that’s okay. I want you to know that I never wanted to and I never _want_ to change you. I, I like you just fine as you are. When you are overwhelmed by a case I will always want to help but you need to know you are always allowed to make me stop. What I want is not, necessarily, always what you want. And I’m, I’m really sorry.”

Sherlock rolls over slightly, so he can watch John, and squints into the distance as he considers the other man’s words. “That’s,” he frowns, as if trying to master a foreign language, “okay.”

John nods sharply and pulls in a long breathe of air, before letting it out on a steady count of four. “I also think you should know, Sherlock, that should you want to stop this, um, dating. If you wanted to go back to just being friends? That would be fine. Absolutely fine.”

“Is that what you want?”

John shrugs indifferently, before regretting it and shaking his head in a more definitive _no_. “I want you, Sherlock. I really do,” he smiles sadly when the detective quickly looks away, “But more than anything I want you to be happy. And I don’t know if this is right for you, necessarily.”

“I’m not a child,”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I’m not incapable of, of,”

“I’m not saying that, Sherlock, I’m not saying that.”

“I,” The detective flounders, as if unsure what he’s meant to be angry about. Eventually he sits up and brushes lint off his pyjama trousers.

“I would very much like to continue dating you, for as long as you’ll let me.” He says.

***


	5. Date Three, Day One

“Go confidently in the direction of your dreams.” – Henry David Thoreau.

***

The rain has stopped but outside it is still muddy and grey, the brilliant early summer Britain had been promised now apparently on hold indefinitely. Baker Street is quiet as John waits for Sherlock to return from the Yard (the previous case had been wrapped up fairly quickly, after a dramatic chase through London and reams upon reams of paperwork), and in the kitchen pasta is cooking itself in a bright red casserole. John visits Mrs Hudson, this time to pilfer a clean table cloth and two tall candlestick holders. Her eyes twinkle as she hands him the goods, and for the first time he silences any automatic protests that lie waiting on his tongue. Maybe not gay, he supposes, but certainly not straight. Not anymore.

All of the kitchen experiments have been moved, either to a cupboard cleared for such eventuality or to the freezer. The kitchen table is old and stained, splinters at every corner and a large mysterious crack in the very centre. John pulls the cloth over it and smiles at the red and white checker-board pattern, not too dissimilar to the table cloths at Angelo’s. The candles take centre stage, with place mats and cutlery set either side of the too-tall lights. A quick flick of the match starts the wick burning.

The front door downstairs rattles as keys are shoved into the lock, and John pulls two bowls from the cupboard over the sink.

***

“What’s this?”

The lights are off, although the cheap candles are doing a fairly good job at illuminating the kitchen along with streetlights reflecting in from outside. John spoons some pasta into a bowl, before handing it to Sherlock and pointing him towards the pile or ready-grated cheese on the chopping board. Looking vaguely bewildered, he sprinkles the bowl before placing it on the table. He does the same with the second bowl, sitting down after a pause.

“I thought your definition of a date was constrained to an event where two people who like each other go out and have fun,”

John sat and picked up the fork, “From now on, my definition of a date is any time you’re with me.”

Sherlock frowned, prodding his food with the kind of interest reserved for experiments rather than dinner. He licked his lips, “Is that your way of saying we’re exclusive?”

“What? Oh, no, I,”

“Because I wouldn’t mind.”

***

The evening is extraordinarily pleasant, no dramatic conversations about love or death, no horrendous pauses where either John feels offended or worries he offended Sherlock. The food is lovely in the way only home cooking can be, and the unscented candles smell of ash which makes John’s stomach twist in a not-unpleasant moment of nostalgia. After the table is cleared Sherlock washes up while John dries, which is almost comically domestic of them, and they eventually find themselves sat on the sofa watching each other more than the nine o’clock news.

As the news draws to a close Sherlock shifts and clears his throat in a way that sounds both awkward and important. John patiently turns the telly off.

“I think, maybe, we should have a, conversation,” he says.

“Oh?”

“Just, I don’t want me to be thinking one thing, and you’re thinking another. I think we should be sure, what we’re doing.”

John cracks a smile, “Are we ever sure what we’re doing?”

The detective huffs, “John, I’m trying to be sensitive here,” he says with all the sensitivity of a rusty hypodermic needle, “If you’re looking out for my happiness it seems only fair that I should look out for yours.”

“Okay,”

“Right.” Sherlock pulls a face before sucking in a long breath, he starts a sentence before thinking better of it. Eventually he sits up and tries for a second time, “What, exactly, are we doing here?”

“Right now?”

“John,” he whined, then started falteringly, “Are we in a relationship?”

“When were we ever not in a relationship?”

“Yes, fine, but has anything changed? Is anything going to? Are we just – why are we dating if at the end of the day we’re just going to watch the news and go to bed separately and wake up for tea in the morning?”

John barked a laugh and self-consciously ran his hand up the back of his arm, “We were going ‘slow’.”

Sherlock blinked, “Slow?”

“Fair enough,” John swung his legs around, closing most of the distance between him and Sherlock.

“Answer the questions, John.”

The doctor smiled coyly, “I’m not sure that anything’s really changed, not yet. And if the news and tea are going to stop I can’t say I won’t be bitterly disappointed. But, I suppose, in time, other things could change.” Their knees now bumped and Sherlock’s eyes widened ever so slightly, “For instance, I imagine we could come to an arrangement regarding the bed situation.” Sherlock’s face was slowly turning crimson, a fantastic blush John knew he instantly adored, “It does seem such a waste that we each have a perfectly good double being used for single occupancy.”

Sherlock licked his lips and cringed, “I see your point,”

John pulled back slightly, “But, we’ll get to that,”

“John?”

Sherlock looked startled, almost crestfallen, and John giggled before leaning in one last time and placing a chaste kiss on soft, slightly parted lips. This time, as John pulled away Sherlock followed, resulting in a rushed but firm kiss, awkward as their noses bumped and Sherlock almost punched the other man in the stomach. Eventually, his hands fisted into John’s jumper and he let out a desperate noise as the doctors’ eyes fell shut. The sky caved in and rain starts to rattle and shake at the windows of 221B Baker Street, but no one really notices.

They will go slow, John promises himself. They will be cautious and careful, and he will give Sherlock all the time in the world because that’s what he deserves. But as the rain starts to fall and a large pile of detective crawls urgently into his lap, he supposes if they can make time slow on their own, that would do just fine, too.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and thank you for anyone who takes or has taken the time to leave comments and kudos.


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